


G Is For Grief:   An Independent Study

by mydogwatson



Series: A Baker Street Alphabet [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 06:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1015564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of an important anniversary, tragedy strikes.  As it does.  At least to these two boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	G Is For Grief:   An Independent Study

**Author's Note:**

> Why do I love hurting John to make Sherlock suffer? Maybe I should seek professional help.

Anything that is given can be at once  
taken away. We have to learn never to  
expect anything. And when it comes,  
it’s no more than a gift on loan.  
-John McGahern

 

A tenth wedding anniversary was not an occasion to be taken lightly and Sherlock Holmes, who had insisted that the arrangements for the commemoration be left entirely to him, had no intention of doing so. Actually, he felt this would provide the perfect opportunity to make some restitution to his partner for all those times over the years when Sherlock had not necessarily lived up to the highest standards of behavior.

[It must be noted that he was not thinking here in terms of the most major infractions, such as drugging John or lying so that he ended up strapped to a bomb vest, or even the worst of all, jumping from a building and making John think he was dead for months. No, forgiveness for those things had long ago been sought and granted. What he wanted to make up for now were the myriad day-to-day offenses. Never buying milk. Leaving John sitting alone at Angelo’s because Sherlock had forgotten their dinner plans. The off-hand and unintentionally cruel words that sometimes came from Sherlock’s mouth. The list could go on and as he thought about it, he was somewhat amazed that a tenth anniversary was even happening.]

Obviously, John was a saint. Sometimes a rather grumpy saint, it must be said, but a saint nevertheless.

In view of all that, Sherlock had spent several weeks on his plans, even going so far as to seek his brother’s help, arranging what he thought would be a perfect evening. Explaining to Mycroft exactly why the celebration must be at the [admittedly] unusual location he’d selected was complicated, but in the end Mycroft had actually laughed and said only, “I should have known.”

It was now the day before the anniversary and Sherlock was in the middle of handling just a few final details when his phone rang. He glanced at the familiar number and answered it with a sigh. “Lestrade, I told you not to call---”

“Sherlock,” the detective interrupted and there was something in his voice that made Sherlock shut up immediately. “Sherlock, I’m sorry, but---”

“What’s happened to John?” Sherlock asked, hoping his words sounded much calmer than he felt inside, where suddenly everything was painfully tight.

Lestrade took a deep breath. “He was going to lunch, it seems, crossing the street in front of the clinic and a car…the brakes failed, no one’s fault…” His words dwindled off.

Sherlock leaned back. He closed his eyes. He remembered John’s goodbye just a few hours ago. How the doctor had tried to sneak a look at Sherlock’s planning notes. Sherlock had smacked his hand. John giggled and hurried out the door.

Lestrade’s voice brought him back to the moment. “I’m just pulling up out front, Sherlock. I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Without even thinking about it, Sherlock was standing, putting on his coat, heading for the stairs. Then he stopped. “Is John dead?” he asked.

There was a gasp on the line. “Christ, no, didn’t I say? I’m so sorry, Sherlock. He’s in very bad shape, don’t know the details, but he’s alive.”

“Thank you,” he said, then moved again.

Sherlock wondered what he would have done if the answer had been different. The first thought in his mind went to the drawer where John’s gun rested.

He slid into the police car and fastened the seatbelt without saying anything.

Lestrade concentrated on driving, with siren blaring and lights flashing.

Sherlock kept his face blank, although he realised that his arms were pressed against his stomach as if holding in some excruciating pain or terrible truth.

An absolutely foolish thought ran through his mind. If this had happened while John was on his way to lunch, he would have missed the meal. John hated to miss meals; it made him irritable.

Well, come down to it, this was all the fault of that cursed clinic. If he hadn’t been there, wasting his time treating sniffles and flu and the other insignificant problems of absolutely insignificant people, this never would have happened. None of those people mattered.  
[It occurred to him, not for the first time, that after all these years John probably thought that Sherlock was more evolved empathetically speaking than he actually was. Sherlock preferred it that way, because he always wanted John to think the best of him.]

Despite the lights and siren and Lestrade’s frankly terrifying driving, it was longest journey Sherlock had ever taken, save perhaps the one that had taken him from his exile back to his life in London. And back to John.

He was so fixated on the idea of the missed lunch that he actually stopped briefly at a vending machine and, while Lestrade looked on in bewilderment, tried to choose between getting chocolate biscuits or salt vinegar crisps for John. In the end, he got both, carrying them in one hand as he followed Lestrade to the desk at A&E.

“Dr. John Watson,” Sherlock announced in a clarion voice.

The clerk looked not at all interested. “Sorry?” she said.

Sherlock drew himself up to his most impressive height and prepared to do battle.

Lestrade shoved himself in front, flashing his badge. “Car accident victim. John Watson.”

The woman started looking on the computer screen, but before she could say anything, someone spoke from behind them. “Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock whipped around. The man standing there looked vaguely familiar. “You work at the clinic.”

“Yes. Paul Hayes. I came in the ambulance with John.”

“Where is he?”

“They’re still evaluating him. Come with me.”

They followed him through endless corridors.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked at one point.

Hayes didn’t respond immediately. “Not good,” he finally muttered.

“I need to see him.”

“The doctors—“  
“He needs to know I’m here,” Sherlock said urgently as they came to a stop by a closed door.

Lestrade touched Sherlock’s arm. “You think John doesn’t know you’re here?”

Sherlock just shook his head, frustrated that no one could understand. “I brought him lunch,” he explained to Hayes, showing him the crisps and biscuits. “John needs to eat regularly or his mood is affected.”

Hayes glanced at Lestrade, who only shrugged. “Just a moment,” he said, and went into the room, closing the door again.

Sherlock was frowning. “Legally, I have the right to see him,” he said.

“I know,” Lestrade replied. “But you want the doctors to do what they have to do, right?”

Sherlock just nodded absently.

It was several minutes before the door opened again. Hayes stepped aside. “Mr. Holmes, you can come in. Just for a moment, all right?”

Now that he’d been granted permission to enter, he was strangely reluctant to do so. But he took a deep breath and went in. The room was filled with people in white coats and nurses operating several beeping machines. Sherlock took one slow step after another and approached the bed.

All the air seemed to leave his body and his legs nearly gave way as he saw the battered form of John Watson lying on the bed. His clothes had been cut away and lay in a bloodied heap on the floor. Sherlock knew he should be making an inventory of the injuries he could see, but all he could do was stare at his husband’s ripped flesh and swollen face. “Oh, John,” he whispered brokenly. “What has happened to you?”

He lifted a hand to touch him, but there were so many IV lines and other things in the way that all he could do was run one fingertip along John’s palm. “Don’t die.” His words ghosted across the bed. “Please.”

Then someone took his arm and guided him out of the room. He took note of the fact that Mycroft was now standing with Lestrade, but walked past them to a chair in the corner and rather collapsed into it. He drew his legs up and held them against his chest.

No one spoke for several long minutes.  
Sherlock didn’t raise his head. “Mycroft,” he said in a muffled voice.

“Yes, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice was absent any of its usual snark. 

“Will you please see to cancelling all the arrangements I have made for tomorrow evening?”

“I have already postponed them until further notice,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Thank you.” He was still gripping the items from the vending machine, although both the crisps and the biscuits had undoubtedly been reduced to nothing but crumbs, judging by the tension of the fingers holding them. “I hope they will tell me when he wakes up.”

“I’m sure they will.”

*

It seemed a very long time before anyone came to speak to them. This was a new face, a doctor that none of them knew. “Is there a family member here?” she said looking at the three men in turn.

Sherlock unfolded himself from the chair and stood, his posture proud. “John is my husband,” he said.

“I see. Well, I’m afraid the news is far from the best. Mr. Watson has not regained consciousness at all since the accident. We don’t yet know the full extent of the damage to his brain. He has some internal bleeding that must be taken care of immediately.”

Sherlock held up a hand to stop her. “Doctor,” he said. “It’s Doctor Watson.”

“My apologies.” She seemed sincere. “I think his spleen will need to be removed. There are several broken bones. But it is the bleeding and the head injuries that concern us most at the moment. We are taking him to the operating theatre now.”

They pushed the bed out of the room and Sherlock stepped forward. He bent over the still form and placed a kiss in John’s hair. “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

Then he went back to the chair and curled up there again. Mycroft and Lestrade sat on the nearby sofa.

*

 

“You know, John, I am not fond of just sitting around waiting for something to happen. So I would very much appreciate it if you would just wake up now.”

It was the same speech Sherlock had given many times over the past three days, but no matter how many times he said the words there was never any response. The machines just kept on beeping and whooshing and John continued to be so very still.

“I have several experiments that need tending to, unless Mrs. Hudson has already disposed of them. I keep forgetting to ask her when we speak on the phone. She would like to be here, but her hip, you know. Perhaps we should think about hiring some help for her. She is not young.”

Sherlock got up from the chair and went to the bed.

“According to the so-called experts here, the swelling in your brain has gone down quite nicely. Everything looks fine, considering, so there is really no reason why you shouldn’t wake up. Immediately, if you please.”

He took an ice chip from the cup and rubbed it gently against John’s lips.

“Mycroft has been. And Lestrade. Molly came by. She says the baby is doing well. I can never remember the infant’s name.”

When the ice was gone, he used his hand to smooth John’s hair. 

“John, I would really like it very much if you would just wake up. The longer you stay like this, the grimmer the outlook. Of course, as a doctor you probably know that. Lestrade brought my computer and I have done a little relevant research, most of which was far from…comforting.”

He adjusted the blanket across John’s chest.

“Believe it or not, my own company has become more than a little annoying.”

Almost absently, he checked oxygen levels and heart rate.

“Apparently I no longer know how to cope on my own. As you can imagine, this irritates me. Although I cannot really claim to be surprised. When I was away from you, on my bloody hiatus, I did not get on especially well. You never asked and I never told you, but when I was on my own I reverted to some bad habits. Oh, you know about the smoking. But not about the drugs. It was only a handful of times, but I was too ashamed to tell you. I couldn’t bear it if you thought less of me.”

He made a minute adjustment to the pillow.

“But you wouldn’t, I know. Think less of me.”

Sherlock dragged the chair even closer to the bed, sat down, and rested his head on the mattress next to John.

“John,” he whispered. “Please wake up.”

Exhausted, and without wanting or meaning to, Sherlock fell asleep.

*

He woke slowly some time later to the achingly familiar feeling of fingers touching his hair. It seemed like part of a dream, so it took several moments before he lifted his head. John’s hand fell to the mattress.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

There was just the faintest twitch in John’s face, but it was more than Sherlock had seen since this nightmare started.

The nurses outside must have seen some change in the readings they were monitoring, because the door opened and one of them came into the room. Sherlock thought her name was Bella. Or Della. Or something.

“He moved,” Sherlock said, sounding a little awed. “He moved.”

She began to bustle around, checking this, adjusting that. Finally she gave Sherlock a smile. “He’s waking up.”

“Well, none too soon,” Sherlock replied crisply. “This has gone on quite long enough.” But his thumb was making small circles on John’s cheek.

When the nurse left, promising to be back with the doctor in a few minutes, Sherlock more or less collapsed against the bed. “Thank you,” he whispered into John’s ear. “Thank you so much.”

He held John’s hand until the door opened again and then he moved away and watched the proceedings in silence. 

 

fini


End file.
